Page 5 of Real

That doesn’t make sense. The magic to create Buddy must have had an enormous price. Why would Dorian pay it and then demand Buddy stay hidden?

Buddy fiddles with the car door for a few seconds before managing to get it open. If he was supposed to hide in a closet every time Dorian came home, I can’t imagine he rode in cars much.

I have one last question before Buddy and I get going.

Why is his name Buddy? Don’t you think that’s a weird name for a sex doll?

Buddy takes just as long with the seatbelt, but at least he seems to understand it’s necessary.

I climb in next to him just as I get Steppe’s answer.

Buddy is what Candlewick calls him. He doesn’t have a name.

My heart aches for him. Clearly, the magic that brought Buddy to life enables him to feel emotion. So far, the emotions he’s felt probably haven’t been good ones.

I reach for his wrist and squeeze it gently. “Are you ready?”

He lifts his head until I can see his face under the hood. “Yeah. Thanks for doing this. I’m sorry I’m such a bother.”

I smile. “I love the beach. I imagine it will be a nice break.”

Buddy searches my face, clearly not sure whether to believe me. It may take him time before he realizes I’m not going to treat him the way Dorian did.

That’s okay. He can have all the time he needs.

I put the address Steppe sent me into my GPS and start my car.

2

Buddy

I try not to stare at H. Steppe told me to keep my head down so no one could see my skin, but H looks so big and soft, and he has freckles all over his body. When he touched my arm, his hand was warm and gentle.

It seems too good to be true that he’ll be the one I get to spend time with until the courts decide what to do with me.

I lower my head until all I can see are my clasped hands in my lap. The car moves back quickly, just like it did when Candlewick drove Dorian’s car out of the estate last night. Everything about our escape frightened me: the fire Candlewick started in the kitchen to distract the guards, the scratchy clothing he made me put on, and the way the car raced like lightning down the gravel driveway. I grabbed for Candlewick’s arm, and he looked back at me with confusion. “Have you never ridden in a car before, Bud?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I knew what cars were. I even knew how to drive one. But the sensation of riding in one was foreign. Even if Steppe is right and I was created by magic, how on earth could I explain that?

H’s car makes a low hum as we roll over bumps and occasionally slow to a stop. I wish I could see where we were going or what the streets look like. Everything about the real world is bigger than what I’ve seen on TV, and there are so many scents in the air. H’s car smells of mint and coffee. I wonder what he would smell like up close. Candlewick always smells like soap and a slight musk that’s all his own. It used to linger on the pillowcase where he slept. When he warned me he wouldn’t be back for a while, I’d swap out the pillowcases and put Candlewick’s in my closet so I wouldn’t feel alone.

I wonder if I’ll ever see Candlewick again. He was only trying to help me, and they handcuffed him like a criminal. He yelled that everything would be okay as they dragged him away. All I could think was: okay for who?

Definitely not okay for him.

H drives for what seems like hours. The sun slowly fills the car with light, and he eventually turns on some music. It’s slow and sorrowful, and the singer’s deep voice drawls like the people in Western movies. The tone matches the sadness in my chest.

“Do you like country?” H asks. “We can listen to something else if you want.”

The question takes me aback. I’ve been asked lots of questions since Candlewick and I were stopped by the police. The officers wanted to know how my body worked and whether I needed to be charged or fed. They spoke to me with loud, slow words as if I were a child. Then they shoved me on a shelf in their evidence room next to a box of blood samples. While I sat there in the dark, I wondered if I had simply traded one kind of closet for another.

H’s question is very different. It’s the kind of question Candlewick might ask me.

“Your music is nice,” I say.

I wonder if this is when he’s going to ask me more questions about what I am or what I can do, but the only sounds I hear for the next hour are the music and the hum of the road. After a while, my eyes begin to droop. I haven’t been able to sleep at all since the escape. Maybe H wouldn’t mind if I rested my eyes for a bit. He probably wouldn’t even notice.

The next thing I know, the car has stopped, and the air smells of salt.

---